


Polite Company

by RiaJade01



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: F/M, Fighting as Flirtation, Kingsman AU, Oh No He's Hot, Self-indulgent one shot, battle couple meet cute, gdi now it's a two-shot, handcuff innuendo, how did this happen, oh no she's hot, some whiskey is wasted and that's sad, stupid fun fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-19 04:06:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12402642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaJade01/pseuds/RiaJade01
Summary: Ria watched Kingsman and was physically incapable of not inserting Quinn. Mara followed. Then this happened.





	1. Chapter 1

“Baras will be most happy with your contribution, my lord.”

“I’m only too happy to funnel my father’s ill-gotten gains to such worthy work.” Quinn adjusted his glasses and stood, straightening the jacket of his suit. The man opposite him followed.

“With your funds we can do quite a lot of work.”

Quinn suppressed a shudder at the giddy tone; Draagh served his employer with all the enthusiasm of a golden retriever trained to kill.

He left, on the way passing the bar’s single occupant: a dark-haired woman staring into her whiskey. Quinn tapped the side of his thick-rimmed glasses to activate a heads-up display; Draagh was heading north. Another tap activated his comm.

“Merlin, the tracking software is active.”

The pub’s door opened, admitting a group of six men, muscular and roughly dressed. One, with a dark peacoat and intricately shaved head, slid into the stool next to the brunette.

“Somethin’ wrong with a world where a woman like you is drinkin’ alone.”

“Receiving now,” Merlin responded. “Gawain and Tristan are in pursuit. Well done.”

“All in a day’s work.” Quinn drained the last of his Guinness and grabbed his umbrella. “I’ll see you back at HQ.”

“Come on, love, lemme buy you a drink.”

“I think not.” She didn’t even look up, the tension in her posture speaking eloquently to her annoyance.

Undeterred, the man gripped the sleeve of her red leather jacket.

“I’m fine with skipping the preliminaries if you are.”

“I’d sooner die, thank you.” Her brisk RP accent cracked like a whip and she jerked out of the oaf’s grasp.

He unfolded from his stool and leaned in, looming over her. Quinn sighed with resignation.

“If that’s your choice-”

“I do believe the lady has tired of your company,” Quinn said, seizing the man’s shoulder firmly.

The sudden silence rang in his ears. Then, the scrape of boots on wood as the five others turned toward him.

“This bird worth broken bones to you?”

“It’s not a question of worth, but of manners.”

The brute turned and burst out laughing, the sound echoed by his cronies.

“Tanido, get a load of this ponce. Manners, my arse.”

Ham-sized hands shoved Quinn backward.

“Last warning, pretty boy. Get lost, or get smeared across the floor.”

Quinn’s shoulders slumped. He bowed his head contritely and moved toward the door.

“‘What I thought. Try not to soil that fancy suit.”

He’d no intention of actually leaving, but if he had that comment would have changed his mind.

“This won’t do,” Quinn admonished, turning the lock on the door knob. “Manners.” One deadbolt clicked into place. “Maketh.” And the second. “Man.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Let’s have a lesson, shall we?”

He whirled, snapping the nearest thug across the nose with his umbrella, and kicked a chair at a second. He tazed them both - the umbrella was a multipurpose weapon - and knocked a third out cold before looking up.

He froze. The woman had the leader pinned against the bar, an arm twisted behind his back and the other hanging at an odd angle. Two bodies - unconscious or dead, he wasn’t sure which - lay sprawled on two different tables.

“Would you like to do the honors?” she asked over her shoulder.

“By all means, ladies first.”

She laughed - a coquettish sound that set his heart racing more than he cared to admit - and smashed a whiskey bottle over the oaf’s head. He went slack and she let him drop.

“Thank you for that,” she said, turning toward him, green eyes sparkling. She smoothed a few strands of dark hair back into her high ponytail. “I could have handled him, but I won’t balk at help freely offered. Let me get you a drink.”

“You wasted the whiskey, I’m afraid.”

“That was the swill they pour for well drinks,” she said, leaning over the bar.

Quinn’s mouth dropped open as she moved, eyes fixed on her ass. She straightened quickly enough to catch him staring, her pleased smirk an enticement all its own. She held a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other.

“I wouldn’t waste a 25-year-old scotch like that, I’m not an animal.”

She sauntered to the other end of the bar, away from the comatose bodies and splatter of crap whiskey. Despite her flirtatious demeanor, she carried the air of a lounging predator.

“I prefer bourbon myself,” he said carefully as he followed her, selecting a bottle from the top shelf behind the bar and pouring into a glass he selected.

She raised one dark brow, amused by his caution. She was nearly his height despite her flat-heeled boots.

“As you wish. At least your taste in suits is better than your taste in spirits.”

She raised her glass. “To manners,” she suggested.

He laughed. “Indeed. To manners, and to surprising young ladies.”

“That very nearly had the air of a question.” She sipped her drink.

“Surely my curiosity is hardly surprising,” he countered.

“Is it not enough that a gorgeous stranger came to your aid?” Her eyes may well have been a scalpel for how they peeled his clothes away. “I’m prepared to enjoy the view, and my good fortune, without invading your privacy.”

“Even if I wanted you to?”

He kept his tone light, hoping to conceal his desire for information with flirtation. And _only_ information, he told himself sternly. Her delighted laughter immediately strained his resolve.

“My dear Mr. Quinn, that’s _not_ very gentlemanly of you at all.”

She knew his name. He kept his face neutral, his body relaxed, or as relaxed as possible with her closing the distance between them, pressing his back against the bar.

“I will of course withdraw my suggestion if it’s not to your liking.”

“Oh, it was to my liking,” she purred. “I like it quite a lot actually.”

His blood roared in his ears when their lips touched. He leaned into her for a moment, allowing himself the small luxury of kissing her just once, and then he threw himself forward, pinning her to a table with a hand on her throat, his pale hand stark against her brown skin.

“Who are you?” he growled.

“Marala Thukral.” She calmly offered him one of her hands in greeting, smirking when he glared at it incredulously. “My employer sent me to evaluate you.”

“Indeed. And who is it that takes such a keen interest in me? Is it Baras?”

She slammed a foot into his shin, and in the split second his hand loosened, she launched herself upward, knocking his umbrella away and throwing him backward into a chair. There was a click and something cool around his wrist. He lunged at her with the hand that was still free, but suddenly she was in his lap, stifling his momentum. With a second click she’d cuffed his other hand to the back of the chair.

“I must confess I thought we’d take longer to work up to handcuffs,” she said, lacing her fingers behind his neck as if they were just a pair of lovers and not... _this_. “But alas.” Her green eyes hardened. “I do _not_ work for Baras. Don’t insult me.”

“Then who?”

She tsked and tapped his nose playfully, his scowl only seeming to fuel her amusement. “A woman can’t be expected to divulge all her secrets in one go.”

Behind him broken glass scraped across the floor followed by the distinctive crunch of a shoulder popping back into place. Half a second later the other five men were standing wearily.

“Bloody hell, did you have to use the whiskey bottle?”

Marala’s green eyes shifted over Quinn’s shoulder.

“I improvised. Still, I should have anticipated the taser.” As she spoke, Quinn ‘s mind raced, working out how to use her split attention to his advantage. She was still talking.

“Tell Vette I’ve doubled your commission, and-” Pain radiated through Quinn’s scalp as she yanked his head back roughly, her knees squeezing him in a way that felt far too good. “Ah-ah, you should know better than that,” she admonished, before turning her attention back to her men. “And confirm the other two were diverted.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where was I? Ah, yes, my employer.” She released his hair and smiled that impudent smile again. _Why is that so alluring?_ “Suffice it to say, your investigation has been very useful to us, but it’s time for you to bow out gracefully and let us do our jobs.”

“You truly think we can be bullied into dropping an investigation?” _Entire governments have tried and failed._

Instead of answering, she eased his glasses from his face.

“So I tap… here?” she activated the comm and turned the front of the glasses toward them, shifting in his lap and snuggling close so they were both in frame. “Good evening, gentlemen. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I do believe Mr. Quinn here will need an extraction from The Oak Lion. He’s had a bit of an afternoon, I should think a good brandy and a warm fireside somewhere would be most restorative. Possibly a hound, too, if you can manage it, and any other posh landed cliche I’ve forgotten.”

She deactivated the comm and tucked the glasses into the front of her shirt.

“If you think I won’t hunt you down, you’re sadly mistaken,” he growled, unsure if he was angrier at the indignity of this entire situation, or that he was _looking forward_ to whatever merry chase she led him on.

“I believe we both know how _disappointed_ I’d be if you didn’t,” she answered, her voice dropping to a heated whisper.

He twitched when she stood, her warm weight having become comfortable after only a handful of seconds. With a final smirk she strolled toward the door.

~*~

“Miss Thukral?”

Mara paused, hand on the doorknob, and looked back, humming in response. Even at a distance his blue eyes burned into her.

“I will endeavor to exceed your expectations.”

The combined threat and promise of those words and the clipped, over-enunciated fury sent shivers through her body. Summoning her willpower, she walked through the door into the dreary afternoon sun without a word.

She desperately wanted him to come after her, and yet she could _not_ let herself be caught. Not yet, anyway.

If nothing else, things had just become supremely interesting.


	2. Ghost Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand, heh.

She didn’t exist. Oh, “Marala Thukral” may well be what she called herself most often, it may even have been the name she was born with for all Quinn knew. But the markers of civic personhood – address, National Insurance Number, credit history, school records – were all fake. Somehow she’d disabled the tracking software in the pair of glasses she stolen from him. Two days of running down leads and he was exactly where he started when Merlin and Galad sauntered into the Oak Lion: an extra step behind Baras, and net two pairs of handcuffs.

He saved the handcuffs. He had every intention of using them again in the not so distant future. For apprehending her, of course, he insisted to himself. Certainly not for anything untoward.

“You said she was investigating Baras?” Merlin asked.

“Yes, she said it was time for us to move aside-" He cut off with a curse. The answer was so obvious, now that he was thinking like a professional instead of like- well. Best not to finish that thought.

If he couldn’t track _her_ , he could track her quarry. With the loss of the bug he'd planted on Draagh, Quinn’s only next step was gaining access to Baras's massive estate and mapping it in person. One could try to place someone on his staff, but there were better ways…

“What is Baras doing over the next few days? Any public events?”

“An art auction next week – he’s tired of his black market impressionist paintings, apparently,” Merlin replied.

“That should be enough time for us to piece together a plan. Get me an invitation. It shouldn’t be too hard, I just gave them six million pounds.”

***

Six million pounds and a tailored tuxedo could gain one entry into most anywhere, Quinn mused, as he handed the gold-foil envelope to the too-smooth fellow stationed at the entrance to Baras’s manor house. The guest list was unsurprising – rich people of all stripes, whether nobility, businesspeople, or celebrity. Some of the attendees were known associates; others simply didn’t care where one’s power and prestige came from so long as the largesse was shared by proximity.

Quinn slid easily into character as the dissolute only son of an aging baron, sharing a laugh and smalltalk with the guests, and more than one flirtatious glance with other. Glasses active, he surveyed the public rooms while he chatted, biding his time until the auction started and he could case the place properly.

Eventually, Draagh, looking supremely ill at ease in the formalwear he’d been stuffed into, threaded his way through the crowd.  
“Lord Baras has asked me to introduce you to other donors of similar caliber,” he said. “If you’ll follow me.”

“But of course, lead the way.”

He found himself in a drawing room, a private bar in one corner, and a small crowd lounging on the couches and chairs, chatting. Draagh introduced him to each – an MP, an 80s television star, two members of dead royal houses, and American financier Pryce Wentworth-Fenton.

Wentworth-Fenton reminded Quinn a bit of old photos of Rock Hudson – handsome in a ruggedly boyish sort of way, sandy blonde hair and blue eyes.

He seemed to thrive on causing offense. Within moments he’d assigned Quinn a derisive nickname – Liz Taylor Eyes, seemingly ignorant of the fact that the actress in question had been famous for her _violet_ eyes – and had apparently already assigned similar monikers to the other high rollers in the room. The MP was Commons, the 80s celebrity One Hit Wonder, and so on.

 _It’s entirely possible this man will bring down Baras’s operation on his own, if this is how he treats fellow donors_ , Quinn thought. He’d begun the conversation trying to hide his disdain for the man but the subterfuge was unnecessary; no one else in the room could stand the bugger.

“Pryce, darling!” Quinn stiffened when he heard the voice. “You disappeared on me, you sly thing.”

Wentworth-Fenton grabbed Marala’s hand and pulled her to him, his arm going possessively round her waist.

“Everyone, this tall caramel princess is my girlfriend. Babe, this is…”

She shot her date a reproachful look as he used each person’s assigned nickname ahead of their actual name, but extended a hand graciously, trading pleasantries that seemed to lessen the tension in the group.

Quinn was thankful for the chance to compose himself. He’d hope to see her here - planned to, really - but she was _stunning_ in a burnt orange gown that flowed over her curves and left one shoulder bare. When she turned to greet others in the group, he caught a flash of her back, bared down to her waist by her gown. The gown and her upswept hair were unadorned; she made up for that simplicity with a cuff on each wrist, spanning two thirds of each forearm and made of finely woven gold.

“Liz Taylor Eyes here is Lord Malavai Quinn.”

“Layla Durane,” she introduced herself.

“Charmed,” he replied. The thick, ornate cuff on her wrist clacked as he shook her hand. “How did you two meet?”

She smiled, green eyes sparkling with mirth. “We met in New York. I own a gallery in SoHo, and Pryce bought several of my clients’ work.”

“What she means,” Wentworth-Fenton put in, “is I saw her from the café across the street and asked her out. She said no, so I bought a painting and asked her again. Long story short, I bought out the entire collection before she agreed to have dinner with me.”

“I’m a businesswoman first,” she said. “My client was ecstatic over the business, and I think I made out quite well, too.”

“I still think I got the best deal; ten million is a very small price to pay for a night with you.”

The group stiffened at the implication, but Marala simply laughed and wrapped her arm around his waist, the other hand slipping into his jacket.

“Since it’s been a month now there are quite a few nights you’ve not paid for, so you can buy me a painting or five today.”

She pulled a credit card from the breast pocket of his jacket. He caught her wrist in a vice grip.

“There’s a toll for that.”

She grinned, then leaned in and kissed him, hard, and for long enough that the rest of the guests shifted and looked away, embarrassed. Quinn, for his part, found himself glaring, and barely managed to avert his gaze before they separated.

“Have fun, babe.”

“I plan to.”

She winked at Quinn on her way out. He scowled and went to the bar, ordering a whiskey that he downed in a single gulp. _It doesn’t matter what – or who – she does, just get the job done._ He’d just begun to sip a second round when his mobile buzzed in his pocket. He unlocked it and frowned.

Someone had activated his glasses. His old glasses.

He excused himself, using the map on his mobile to venture through the house and up two flights of stairs. He paused outside the door to his destination, centered himself, and then slipped inside as quietly as he could and locked the door behind him.

“What took you so long?”

They were in an improvised office, likely set up for the auctioneer to process transactions once the evening was complete. Marala sat on the desk, a laptop turned toward her, the blue light from the screen highlighting the shadow of her jaw and clavicle, typing away furiously.

She was wearing his glasses.

Dammit that shouldn't have been as provocative as it was. He cleared his throat.

“Why summon me here.”

“What makes you think I summoned you?” She looked up at him, smiling. “Perhaps I’m just extremely far-sighted.” At his continued glare, she sighed. “Fine, I summoned you. I thought I could be sporting and share some intel with you.”

“And why, pray tell, would you do that?” He crossed the room and sat in the desk chair.

“You’ve had trouble tracing Baras’s financials, am I correct?” At his nod, she continued, “I’m about to fix that. With this.” She waved Wentworth-Fenton’s credit card at him. “I’m loading a virus into the credit processing system. Once my transactions are processed, we can trace the payment through his labyrinth of shell companies and find the source.”

“We.”

She finished typing and turned the laptop toward him. “Here’s everything you need to track the payments. Send it to your Merlin or whatever he’s called.”

“You know quite a lot about my organization,” he grumbled, taking his mobile out and turning off the wifi and Bluetooth. He began manually typing the information into the phone.

“I make it a point to know everything I need to know about my associates,” she said. She watched him work for a moment, the task that could have been done with a quick scan of the laptop screen drawn out by the need to type everything out with his thumbs. “You really don’t trust me, do you?”

“You handcuffed me to a chair.”

“I made sure you had help incoming.”

“You stole my glasses.”

“Only so you could find me again.”

He inhaled sharply and looked up at her. Her green eyes smoldered back at him. It suddenly occurred to him how very alone they were. He desperately hung onto his common sense.

“We could have exchanged numbers or email addresses like normal people.”

“Ah, but we aren’t normal people, are we?” She tapped his knee with a foot. “Nearly done?”

“Nearly. Don’t be so impatient-"

The doorknob rattled, followed by a muffled curse.

“Dammit,” she hissed

“Done,” he snapped back.

She slapped the enter key to complete the upload and slammed the laptop shut.

A key scraped into the door lock.

She threw herself into his lap.

He caught her with a grunt that was entirely muffled by her mouth on his. Then instinct took over. She gave a small moan when he pressed her mouth open, pulling him against her until he nearly had trouble breathing. One hand slipped into the back of her dress, skimming her warm flesh until she shivered against him. His collar loosened as she yanked open his bow tie, her hands sliding down his chest to the buttons of his waistcoat.

He was pushing her gown up her thigh when the door finally opened.

“What the-“

Marala tore herself away from him, stumbling to her feet with the single strap of her gown falling off her shoulder. Adding to the bit, Quinn cursed and stood, hurriedly buttoning his waistcoat.

“Sir, I would appreciate your discretion,” Marala said slowly, voice shaking. “My boyfriend, he- he would react poorly to-“

“Not my problem, Miss Durane.”

“What is your discretion worth?” Quinn asked, placing a protective hand on Marala's waist.

At the auctioneer’s scandalized look, Marala cut in smoothly, “Perhaps we could purchase two of your paintings sight unseen. Your choice and your price.” She paused. “You DO work off of commission, do you not?”

He did. The negotiation was short. As the man processed credit card charges for what Quinn felt certain was at least double the market rate of any painting in the collection, Marala stepped in front of him and busied herself with his bow tie.

He stared at her while she worked, trying to ascertain how much of that kiss was real. And whether it mattered. And how they could do it again.

“That was close,” she murmured. She looked up at him through dark lashes. “Invigorating, isn’t it.”

“Perhaps.” He ran a finger down her cheek and neck, smiling as he watched her shudder under his touch. “Far more invigorating is the certainty you’d let me fuck you right here in front of our audience.”

Her eyes slid shut at his words, hands curling into fists against his chest.

“Fortunately for us both, I’m a professional,” she said finally, her voice strained with lust.

“A pity.”

He took his credit card back from the auctioneer.

“A pleasure doing business with you both.”

He felt far more smug than he should have at the shocked gasp that followed him from the room.


End file.
